


Haze of Shades

by MechanicalDetective (deducemypain)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deducemypain/pseuds/MechanicalDetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John. Light Romance, I suppose.<br/>Sherlock is diagnosed with sFI after an aneurysm, and as his condition worsens, John descends into a haze of uncertainty and grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haze of Shades

**Author's Note:**

> My second work!  
> Admittedly, it's a hell of a lot like Alone on the Water.  
> I wrote it for a friend, who does indeed have sFI. And if he reads this, well, I'd like him to know that I'd miss him a hell of a lot more than John would miss Sherlock.  
> Enjoy.

**November 26th**

**Crisp and brisk.**

 

Sherlock Holmes tapped his fingers on the armchair, plucking the strings of his violin. He hummed absentmindedly under his breath, a melody quietly drifting out of the soft, deep tones.

The white fingers curled, reaching for the bow, while the other hand gripped the polished neck of the instrument firmly, landing softly on the strings like the delicate legs of water skimmers on the still water. He brought the bow to rest on the strings, then drew it across. Back and forth, back and forth. The bow and the violin sang a sweet tune, the lilting notes drifting and permeating the very atmosphere of 221B Baker Street, then abruptly stopped, followed by a muffled thump.

In his room, John Watson looked up.

“Sherlock?”

He closed his laptop and stood up from the table, then paused, listening for any sound or reply.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

John strode over to the closed door, then hesitated.

 _He probably just thought of a bloody experiment that he just absolutely had to try, and distracting him will probably just piss him off. Should I check...? Should I? ...Yes. Yes, I should_ , he decided, turning the doorknob.

“Sherlock, what are yo-- oh, _bloody_ hell. Mrs. Hudson! Call the ambulance!”

John knelt besides the armchair, placing a gentle hand over Sherlock’s open mouth. No breath, he noted with a growing sense of panic. He forced himself to swallow it, ignore it as he reached for Sherlock’s wrist, his pale white fingers dangling limply over the armchair, the bow and violin lying haphazardly on the floor.

_You’re back in Afghanistan. Your best mate just got shot and you need to calm the hell down and fix this. You can’t let him die, can’t let him die, can’t let him die..._

John exhaled in brief relief, feeling a pulse beneath his fingers. It was faint and erratic, but Sherlock was alive. For now. His grip on Sherlock’s wrist slackened, moving down to the seemingly lifeless digits, and John clutched them tight, nearly bending double over their entwined fingers. _Can’t let him die, can’t let him die, can’t let him die..._

John was still frozen in place when the red and blue sirens arrived. He followed the paramedics into the ambulance, still holding the detective’s hand.

***

Blip. Blip. Blip.

The hum of the cold hospital lights and the heartbeat monitor were the only sounds in the quiet room. Neither the tawny-haired man nor the one in the bed slumbering peacefully made an audible noise. John stared down at Sherlock’s face, the forehead relaxed through a lack of concentration, the angular jaw and cheekbones even paler than before, the long black lashes adorning the eyes that John hoped were not to be closed forever. He stared down at Sherlock’s sleeping form, watching every twitch of the eyelids, every rise and fall of the chest, while he himself seemed to barely breathe.

“John! How are you? How’s Sherlock? Sorry, we came as soon as we got your call!” The door to the ward swung open, admitting a young woman still dressed in a white lab coat, and an older man with greying hair and wrinkles of stress around his eyes.

“Molly. Inspector Lestrade.” John looked around with tired red eyes.

“What happened to him? Why is he like... like this?”

“He had a stroke yesterday. Aneurysm. Out of nowhere. And... and...” John stopped, voice cracking. Both Molly and Lestrade leaned forward, trying to catch his words.

“They say he’s got SFI. Bloody sporadic fatal insomnia.”

***

John’s head flopped onto his shoulder and he sat up, rubbing his blurry eyes. His watch read 5:36 AM, and the surgery room’s light was still on. _Dammit, still?_ he thought. _It’s been, what, 4 hours since he first went in? God, I wonder if... no. No, John, keep hoping. He’ll make it. He’s Sherlock. I know he will._

A single doctor walked out just as the surgery light turned off, his face sober. John stood up simultaneously from the uncomfortable plastic chair, his joints creaking as he expected the worst. “Is he... ?” he questioned, his face paling in the dim light. _Please tell me he’s not..._

The doctor nodded. “He’ll live through the aneurysm. But...”

“But what?” John asked, the brief respite disappearing as he heard the doctor’s hesitation.

“His sFI is progressing many times faster than anyone we’ve ever studied... it doesn’t make sense. Normally, he’d have at least a year after symptoms and diagnosis, but now...”

“Tell me how long he has left.”

“We can’t be sure, but it seems like perhaps a few weeks, two months at the most. I’m sorry, Doctor Watson. There’s nothing we can do. Take him home in a week, make him as comfortable and happy as you can. I can’t put this in a better way; he’ll still be Sherlock, but--”

“He’ll fade away slowly, gradually, until he’s just a shadow of himself. He’ll have panic attacks, sleepless nights, eventually lose his ability to speak, to move, become locked in a motionless shell. I know. I know.”

 

 

**November 28th**

**Full moon.**

 

John slumped into his chair in the corner of the room, his frame scrunched into the ill-fitting wooden chair with the overstuffed cushions. All the lights were off in the room, and the only thing that stopped them from sleeping in total darkness was the faint white light seeping in from the crack under the door, and the moon that shone steadily through the window.

A pair of green eyes fluttered and slid open in the darkness.

Almost as though he could sense Sherlock’s waking, John sucked in a sharp breath and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Sherlock? Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

The former army doctor rose out of the chair, joints creaking as he tread over to the hospital bed, wincing with each soft squeak of his shoes. Careful not to bump into the IV or any of the various machines hooked up to his friend, he sat down on the white mattress and sheets, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“What’s thi-- why is there a IV in my arm? Where the hell are we?”

“St. Bart’s Hospital. It’s been almost three days. You had surgery two days ago.”

“Hmm. John, fetch me a wheelchair.”

“What?”

“Fetch me a wheelchair, John. We’re getting out of here. I’m perfectly fine.”

“No, Sherlock. No, neither of us are leaving, and you’re not ‘perfectly fine.’”

John placed a gentle yet firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing him back down to rest on the pillow. _This is ridiculous_ , he thought. _He just had an aneurysm, a stroke, and surgery, and yet he insists that everything’s ‘perfectly fine’?_

“Sherlock. You’re not going anywhere until the hospital says it’s alright. This isn’t my area of expertise, Sherlock. I’m a doctor, but if something happened to you, I...” John swallowed, then sucked in a deep breath. “I couldn’t take care of you.”

Sherlock sank back onto the pillows, staring at the IV plugged into his arm. IVs. So helpful and yet so ridiculously vile. They felt utterly repulsive, with all those fluids and other substances pumping into him. He sighed, crossing his arms as he considered somehow blackmailing John into helping him.... no, that wouldn’t work at all. It was _John_ , for Christ’s sake.

“Fine. But we’re getting out of here in a week at most.”

 

 

**December 4th**

**White rain.**

 

“John, are you sure he’s going to be alright at home?”

"No, but do you think he won’t find a way to get out of here?”

“That’s true.”

“Yes, so, goodbye, Molly, Inspector Lestrade. Thanks for stopping by.”

John waved back at the two figures standing by the door, partially hidden by the thick curtain of snow that was trickling from the grey London sky, as he helped a surly Sherlock into a cab, directing the driver back to 221B Baker Street. The moment the door closed, John turned to Sherlock and began to rattle off a list of rules.

“No drugs. Absolutely not. We can’t risk the painkillers and medication you’re on now mixing and reacting with anything else. No experiments. For now. Not until you can stand and not have your knees crumple. You will eat everything I bring you. Soup, bread, vegetables, meat, everything. No complaints, no fussing, nothing. You can’t do anything I would disapprove of, and you know exactly what that means. Also, I’m not letting you out of my sight. You’ll spend nearly every waking moment with me.”

“Fine, fine. Anything else?”

_Fine? Is he really agreeing to everything?_

“Just questions for you. How long have the symptoms been appearing? Did you know you had...”

“SFI? Hmm, I’ve been an insomniac ever since I could remember, John, but surely you don’t think I wouldn’t have told you if I knew I had SFI? You’ve seen my symptoms as well.”

“I have?”

John racked his brain, thinking of all the times he had peeked through a crack in his bedroom door, seen the slender figure hard at work and pacing around the kitchen table, hands loaded with chemicals and bloody samples, lips babbling something unintelligible beneath his breath. Perhaps once or twice, the lighting had seemed to reveal the sharp, cat-like eyes staring straight into John’s curious blues, but the next instant they were whirling back to their experiments.

John blushed. How had Sherlock noticed, no, the question was _when_ had he noticed?

“Ah, well, er, alright, then. When did the symptoms for the aneurysm begin?”

“When I woke up, I was aware of a migraine, but I thought nothing of it, really. I just took some painkillers and went on. Then, maybe an hour before I passed out, I gave up trying to read my book and turned to the vio-”

“Why?”

“Well, John, I couldn’t see anything. The words were a scramble of black on the white haze of paper. I hadn’t been focusing on anything for the last hour or so, anyway. I don’t remember anything in the book.”

“My god, Sherlock. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“John, in my family, I was raised to not bother others with my pain.”

***

John was depressed.

 _In my family,_ he said. _In my family. In my family. In my family._ John’s thoughts tortured him, teasing and laughing and giggling mercilessly at his brain, already bogged down with having to take care of Sherlock Holmes. _Even bloody Mycroft is closer than you are. He’s his family, his brother. You’re just... you’re just a friend. His only friend, perhaps even his best friend, but you’re not family, John. Not family... Not that you cherish your own, anyway._

“John?”

He looked up from the laptop perched on his knees, and looked straight at Sherlock. He lay on the couch with piles and piles of quilts and blankets piled atop his pale frame. John had heard Sherlock shivering earlier, probably from being exposed to the freezing temperatures outside, and since chicken soup hadn’t done much to help, the only alternative seemed to be blankets. Enough to stifle a small child.

“John, this is suffocating me.” Sherlock’s voice emerged from somewhere beneath the thick coverings. “Body warmth and one blanket should be enough.”

“It would if you had body warmth, Sherlock.”

“Well, then these aren’t insulating anything, are they?”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, then shifted in his chair. “...not really, no.”

Sherlock lifted a corner of the giant mass with one arm and beckoned to John with the other. The latter’s face brightened up almost instantly, but he hesitated, staring down at the tiny space on the couch, and Sherlock’s voice took on its familiar tone of impatience.

“John, I’m cold and you’re tired. We both know that you haven’t gotten any sleep in the past week. You need it, John.”

“I- but- I- er- wai-”

“Full sentences, John. Come.” There was no refusing that familiar, commanding voice.

The short blond man walked forward slowly, eyes on Sherlock, and slipped beneath the covers. Almost instantly, he felt the long arms wrap around his shoulders and waist, Sherlock’s hard torso hug his back, and John flushed, suppressing a shiver. Sherlock was ice cold, as cold and hard as a marble countertop.

Sherlock chuckled sleepily. “Quite the hot water bottle, aren’t you, hmm?”

“Sh-shut up.”

A few minutes passed in silence, and Sherlock nestled his head into John’s jumper, curling around the shorter man as his breath slowed down and became calmer. John squirmed a bit, but when he felt Sherlock tense slightly, his grip becoming tighter, he stopped.

“Sherlock?”

“I-it’s nothing...”

A heavy silence ensued, and John waited. _Out with it, Sherlock. What’s bothering you?_

“John?”

“Yes?”

“John, I think I’m afraid.”

John blinked. _Afraid?_ “Of what?”

“Certainly not death... I think I’m afraid of being forgotten. John, you won’t forget me, will you?”

“Never.”

“That’s good. Good. Good...”

“... Sherlock?”

The name came out as a whisper, followed by a quiet sigh of relief at the soft snore in response. John closed his eyes, suddenly unable to keep them open, and detective and blogger slept on.

After a short pause, the green eyes opened, but the owner had no intention to move.

 _Oh, John_ , he thought. _I have insomnia, and you know that perfectly well. I can’t sleep. Perhaps I wish I could, but I can’t. You also know I’m a damn good actor._

A new thought entered the detective’s mind; perhaps his blogger had given him the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe he just wanted a nap. _Hmm, then I too, will give you the benefit of the doubt, John. Goodnight_.

 

 

**December 5th.**

**Pleasantly moderate.**

 

“John, wake up.”

“Huh? Y-yes, what is it?”

For a brief moment, John forgot everything that had happened. For a short instance, he thought it was a normal day at 221b Baker Street, and Sherlock was waking him up, impatiently as always, to go on some new adventure. And then he felt the coldness of the thin fingers laid delicately like moth wings on his cheek.

John breathed out heavily, his sigh hitching on a sob.

“John? What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing, I--”

And then he found himself turned into Sherlock’s chest, breathing in his familiar, comforting scent, and his friend’s arms were around him, patting him awkwardly on the back as he let his tears run, the tears of realization. Sherlock’s lips moved in John’s hair, and John heard tiny wisps of words and phrases, and he let the deep rumble of the voice reverberate from Sherlock’s chest to his head, filling it with tremors of warmth for all that Sherlock’s body was cold, colder than the grave, cold as ice.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to leave.” The unsaid word, the unsaid _you_ floated in the air, and both were comfortably aware of its presence.

The sobs eventually quieted to a occasional hitch in his breathing, and he sat up next to Sherlock, using the sleeve of his jumper to rub roughly at his eyes.

“John?”

“What?”

“I need you to tell me the truth, John. What will happen?”

“You’ll begin to have attention deficits and progressive memory loss. Aphasia will kick in, and attention and calculation will dwindle. You’ll have trouble walking and talking. There will be panic attacks, and eventually the loss of the ability to speak and to move.”

“How long before then?”

“At this rate… perhaps a month or two. I just wish there were so--”

“Something you could do? I wish there was something, too. But until then, we will continue as though nothing had happened.”

 

 

**December 20th.**

**Enchantingly frosty.**

 

Two figures stood slightly apart from the others, bundled against the December chill. One, clad completely in black with but a spot of faded blue at his neck, knelt by the partially-covered body in the snow. He sighed, the white cloud of warm air vaporizing into the air as he stood up.

“Sherlock? Did you find something?” Inspector Lestrade asked, walking over to the two, an inquisitive look in his eye, and somewhere deeper, a look of expectancy.

“Where are his keys?”

“His keys? You mean his flat keys?”

“No, his car keys. More specifically, his cab keys. The man’s got a Category B Full Driver’s License. His right leg is slightly more muscular than the right, and his pants are heavily creased in the hip and knee areas, signifying sitting for a long period of time. He seems to be around 50, well groomed, but his clothes are old and mended several times, showing that he isn’t wealthy, which, in London, usually points to a cabbie. His license states that he lives on nearly the other side of London, and because cabbie shifts take up a good 10 to 12 hours per day, either from 6am to 6pm or the other way around. Judging from the rigor mortis, the fact that the snow began last night at around 12 and his shoes are perfectly dry, and the reports you’ve given me of time of death, this man was on a night shift.”

“Incredible.”

“Yes, John, I know. Lestrade, you’ll find the taxi in a 2 mile radius.”

“Sergeant Donovan, you heard the man. Send a team off in a two mile radius. Now, Sherlock, who should we expect the killer to look like?”

“He should be in his late twenties, early thirties. Well built, probably Caucasian, and--”

Sherlock’s voice suddenly cut off, and he whirled around and stomped away with a strangled look twisting his sharp features, John following behind anxiously. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Lestrade turn to Donovan, confused, then hesitantly draw closer.

“Sherlock, _breathe_.”

The detective’s eyes watered, and he looked as though his mouth was sealed tightly shut.

“Sherlock? Tell me, what’s the password to my computer?” Lestrade’s authoritative voice chimed in.

“Moustache Harold,” Sherlock said, breaking the spell. He exhaled deeply, then looked up in what Lestrade would eventually realize to be the closest Sherlock would come to thanking him. At the time, the facial expression just looked like a painful grimace.

Sherlock returned to the crime scene, John by his side, and though the rest of the investigation proceeded smoothly, reflected by the familiar look of smug pride on the detective’s face when the police pulled the perpetrator out of a Dumpster he had been hiding in, John stole occasional looks at his friend throughout the day, on the cab, back home in 221b, over the mugs of steaming tea he had made for them.

***

“At the end of this week, John.”

John looked up from the paper he was pretending to examine, when all he could think of was how Sherlock’s skinny, too-skinny form was crumpled over the toilet and shaking as he vomited his guts out yesterday.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, John. Injection, or pills? ...John?” The doctor’s breath caught in his throat, as it had so many times in the last month. Already so soon? It had been less than a month. Only, what, twenty days?

“Sherlock, you know, I really think we should wait for a while more.”

“I don’t want to wait. I don’t consider living without functioning normally as living. And I’ve already said goodbye to all that I’ve loved. My city, London. My work. My… friends.”

“What about your family?”

“Father’s dead, Mycroft definitely already knows, and Mummy is horrible at handling farewells. Always has been, always will be.”

“Sherlock, they’re family, for god’s sake!”

“They’ll understand.” “Sherlock--”

“You’re my family, John.”

“Yes, but--” John stopped. _His family. I am his family. And as his family, I want to make him happy, no matter the cost._

“I… Sherlock, if that’s really what you want--”

“It is.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Friday. Four days from now.”

“Right. Now, I suppose we’ll have to do pills or some form of consumable substance. Get them for me, won’t you? And I refuse to have any suspicion pinned on you.”

“I think Lestrade will take care of that.”

“Indeed. I think we can trust the Inspector with this one job, can’t we?”

John’s face cracked into a smile, the first smile in weeks, and then it fled instantly.

“Dammit, Sherlock, I-- I thought we would be together for the rest of our lives. Live in 221b. I’d wanted so, _so_ much, to spend the rest of my days with you, and I really thought it would happen. That we’d grow old together as happy bachelors.”

“That’s all? Rather limited, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock--” John looked up to see a sad, teasing smile on the angular, thin face. “I--”

Words failed him, and the emptiness hung in the air, painful and stifling. Sherlock filled it. “At least I get to spend the rest of mine with you.”

 

 

**December 23rd.**

**Drearily cold.**

 

“John, can we go someplace?”

“Where?”

“The Eye, perhaps. You know, I’ve never actually been there. And then, maybe Richmond Park.”

***

The two sat in silence. Though the attendant had told the two to balance out the weight and sit opposite to one another, Sherlock and John sat side by side, as close together as possible on one side of the capsule.

“It’s quiet up here, isn’t it? Nice change, for once,” John said.

“Mmm.”

“You can see all of London from here. Look, Kensington Gardens.”

“Mmhmm. John, you do know that I can’t see clearly anymore?”

John sank into silence, but he reached for Sherlock’s fingers with his own.

“I’ll be your eyes when you’re blinded, your ears when you’re deafened. I’ll carry you when your legs fail, and I’ll be your words when you’ve stopped speaking. I promise.”

“I know, John. And thank you. For all that you’ve done.”

***

Late that night, they returned to 221b.

Hands still clasped.

 

 

**December 24th.**

**Gray.**

 

John awoke from his sleep, two piercingly bright eyes staring at him.

“Dammit, Sherlock, don’t do that.”

“Apologies. It’s the last time.”

“...”

“...”

“So, what do you want to do today?”

“Well, seeing as my hands have stopped functioning,” Sherlock said, holding out his trembling digits, “and that it’s taking a bit of effort to even speak this clearly, I want to be alone today.”

John gulped, and Sherlock’s eyes widened as he realized how it must have sounded.

“No, no, John, when I said alone, I meant alone with you.”

“--aah. I see.”

“Is that alright?”

“Yes. That’s fine.” _He bloody damn wants to spend his last 12 hours with me, and me alone. How is that not alright? No, how is that alright?_

“Let’s stay home, John. Can you read to me? I’ll play violin. Perhaps some Beethoven.”

“Fine, yes.”

John reached over and picked up the book that lay on the tabletop without even glancing at the cover.

***

Sherlock’s head was balanced precariously on John’s shoulder, the first time John had seen Sherlock sleep in a few weeks. _It wasn’t supposed to go so fast. The doctor said he had two months. What happened to all those weeks?_

The wavy head of dark, glossy hair moved and yawned. “John?”

“Right here.”

“I think it’s time, John.”

John tensed, but instead of getting up, he buried his face into Sherlock’s hair. It smelled sweet but sickly. Sighing slowly, wishing that he could give some warmth to his friend, he got up slowly, prolonging every minute, every moment it would take to get to that little bottle of pills sitting quietly on his bedside table. He didn’t think Sherlock would have taken them without him knowing, but he kept them in his pocket during the day anyway. They felt heavier than the world to him.

Returning to Sherlock, he saw how the jumper hung loosely on his friend’s shoulders, how his face was more angular and paler than ever, how the shadows under his eyes, once but a shadow of themselves, had become dark and pronounced. He choked on his breath when he saw that the once-brilliant blue-grey eyes with specks of green and gold had began to dim, stars that had outshone their moments of glory.

Sherlock held out his hand for the bottle.

“John, please.”

The doctor’s fist tightened around the bottle, obscuring it from view.

“After all we’ve been through Sherlock, I thought… we survived Moriarty, the Golem, all kinds of shit and mishaps that came bumbling our way, and now I lose you to a damned prion disease? One of the rarest in the world? Why? Why you, of all people? I don’t want to lose you, Sherlock. I want you to stay beside me until my dying breath.”

“John, I… I want to stay here too... I... I thought I wasn’t afraid of dying, but now, I don’t know anymore. I suppose… I suppose I didn’t think anyone would miss me. I thought I would go out for a great cause, with a boom.”

He chuckled feebly, then reached up with one trembling hand to wipe away the tear rolling down John’s cheek.

“Please, John. My friend. Don’t let me suffer anymore.”

***

“John, I think I’m starting to fade.”

“Wait, no, Sherlock, listen to me. I want you to know... I want you to know we were lucky.”

“What?” Sherlock’s voice was little more than a whisper, and he managed to focus on John with great effort. With his head cradled in John’s lap, Sherlock felt warm, warmer than he had in a long, long time. He closed his eyes, too tired to keep them open.

“Lestrade was right. Remember when he said, you were a great man, and if we were lucky, you’d be a good one? We were lucky, Sherlock. Very, very lucky.”

“Ah, yes. I… I think I was the lucky one, John… Lucky to have known you… Lucky to be here in your arms… In the arms of a friend… I...”

John listened closely, bending close as Sherlock’s voice slowly became nothing more than a whisper.

“Yes? Sherlock? You- you what?” he murmured back, until he realized there was no response, no breath. He bent over the still form, shaking silently, unable to breathe, with nothing but the feeling of the cold hand in his own, and the warm tears streaking down his face.

 

***

 

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, Shirley?”

“Grandpa, who’s this?” A little girl with her grandfather’s curious blue eyes pointed at a picture of two mischievously grinning men in an old, worn leather wallet.

A faint smile crept across the grandfather’s wrinkled old face as he took the picture in his shaking hands.

“Ah, that would be Sherlock Holmes.”

“Grandpa, who’s that?”

John Watson smiled.


End file.
